‘I love you,’ he declares softly, out of nowhere. He can see. There’s no fooling him. ‘I love you, I love you, I love you.’ Moving forward, he encourages my backward steps until my back meets the tiles and I’m swathed in wet, hot skin. ‘Tell me you understand.’

‘I do.’ My voice is low, and though I’m certain of it, I don’t sound it. ‘I do,’ I repeat, attempting to inject some sureness into my tone. I fail on every level.

‘She won’t get the opportunity to taste me.’

I inwardly shiver, desperate not to let my mind venture there, and nod, reaching for the shampoo. I ignore the worried eyes that I know are currently studying me and set about washing his waves. I’m still slow and soft in my caring for him, but now there’s determination behind my tenderness in the form of a consistent mental pep talk. My mind is a whirlwind of silent encouraging words, and I’m going to make sure they continue to play in the background for the entire time he’s gone.

Miller is like a statue, only moving when I prompt him with a nudge or a flick of my eyes to his. He can read me through my eyes. He responds to my every thought. He owns my body, mind, and soul. Nothing can change that.

I shut the shower off and step out to collect a towel, drying Miller off and wrapping it around his waist before seeing to myself. I can see with perfect clarity how hard he’s finding it to refrain from seizing control and taking care of me.

Opening the cupboard above the sink, I pick out a can of deodorant and hold it up to him. He smiles a little and lifts his arm, giving me access to spray him. Then I move onto his other before putting it neatly away. Next, his wardrobe. Claiming Miller’s hand, I pull him through the bedroom, still repeating my mental mantra of positive thoughts.

But the sight when I enter his wardrobe makes them falter and my feet skid to a stop. I drop Miller’s hand and run my eyes over the three walls of rails on a slightly gaping mouth. ‘You really did replace all of your suits?’ I ask in disbelief, swinging around to face him.

He doesn’t retreat, nor does he look in the slight bit embarrassed. ‘Of course,’ he says, like I’m utterly daft for thinking he wouldn’t. He must have spent a small fortune! ‘Which would you have me wear?’

I watch as he casts a hand around the room slowly, and my eyes follow it until I’m faced with a sea of expensive material again. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit, feeling a bit overwhelmed. My fiddling fingers find my ring and start spinning it wildly as I wander the length of each wall, wondering what to put him in. My decision is made easy when I spot a dark navy pinstriped suit. I reach up to feel the material. It’s so smooth. Luxurious. His eyes will pop even more. ‘This one.’ I unhook the hanger and whirl around to face him. ‘I love this one.’ Because he needs to look perfect when I let him leave me to kill someone. I shake my head, trying to shake my errant thoughts away.

‘You should.’ He approaches and relieves me of the suit. ‘It’s a three-thousand-pound suit.’

‘How much?’ I gasp, horrified. ‘Three thousand pounds?’

‘Correct.’ He’s completely unfazed. ‘You get what you pay for.’

I muscle in and reclaim the suit, hooking it over the wardrobe runner. Then I fetch some boxers and kneel, holding them open for him to step into with one foot, and then the other.

I work the material up his thighs, being sure to brush my hands across his skin as I do. I definitely don’t imagine him flinching each time my touch skims him, and I definitely hear his constant quiet hitches of breath. I just want myself on every piece of him. ‘There,’ I say, arranging the waist of his boxers just so. I stand back and stare. I shouldn’t, but Miller’s physique against the crisp white boxer shorts is impossible to ignore. Impossible not to appreciate. Impossible to keep my hands off. Impossible for anyone to keep their hands off.

She won’t be tasting him. My mind is playing tug-of-war, going between the two horrors playing in my mind. Both are unbearable to think about. I’m looking at his ripped torso, seeing stunning, inviting flesh, but I’m also seeing power. Strength. He looked deadly in that footage. There were no cut muscles, no visible signs of danger, only the air of malice behind his empty eyes. Now he has the strength to back up that deadly temper.

Stop!

I fly around and grab his trousers, wanting to reach into my head and snatch that thought right out. ‘These,’ I blurt abruptly, yanking the button open and crouching at his feet again.

My anxious motions are ignored. Because he knows what I’m thinking. I clench my eyes shut and only re-open them when I hear him shift and feel his trousers move in my hand. He’s not going to say anything, and I’m eternally grateful.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

It seems to take me forever to work his trousers up his legs and when I reach his waist, I leave them hanging open, my thumbs tucked into the waist, resting on his skin. My heart is thrumming a consistent, hard beat in my chest, but I can feel my emotion squeezing at my aching muscle. It’s going to give soon. My heart is literally breaking.

‘Shirt,’ I say under my breath, like I’m prompting myself with what should come next. ‘We need a shirt.’ I reluctantly remove my hands from his body and confront the rails of expensive dress shirts. I don’t bother flicking through, instead just taking down one of the dozens of bright white ones and unbuttoning it with care, being sure not to create any creases. His breath kisses my cheeks as I hold it and he threads his arms through. He’s silent and co-operative, letting me do my thing at my own pace. I secure the buttons slowly, hiding away the perfection of his chest, until I reach his neck. His chin lifts slightly to make my task easier, the bruise on his neck screaming loud and proud, before I work his cuffs, ignoring my unreasonable mind wondering how he’ll cope with blood on his fine threads. Will there be blood?